


Restorative Divertissment

by Measured_Words



Category: Diablotin
Genre: Diablotin III, Gen, Minor Ralf/Ander, Nudity, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Psyrene War, References to Minor Character Death, Regret, Skinny Dipping, Slice of Life, Soldiers, Swimming, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/pseuds/Measured_Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 424 is back from a grueling stint on the front lines, and everyone could use a break.  A trip to the river seems like a perfect idea to help morale, but officers, of course, are meant to stand apart from their soldiers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restorative Divertissment

**Author's Note:**

> Because last year I wrote the first Ander and Ralf story on Remembrance Day and it seemed like a nice tradition to continue :)

Technically, the 424 were going back on reserve status at Tashoren starting the next morning. They'd made it back to base earlier than expected that morning after their latest stint in the trenches out east, and had time to kill. Someone in Ander's unit had made the suggestion of recreational PE down by the river, and it sounded like the perfect way to relieve some tension. The perimeter was secure, but he had two volunteers on watch regardless. Both were soldiers who, after their last month, certainly had reason to want to withdraw into their own thoughts and spend some time apart from their fellows.

The last month had been gruelling. Their two weeks on the front lines had been rough, with daily casualties in the battalion from Psyrene shelling. It had been bad enough that rather than being withdrawn to serve as support, the platoons had been split up to help reinforce holes in the Imperial defenses. Ander had started with 44 men and women under his command, and returned with 28. Four of them had been lost all at once, to a well-placed enemy mortar. Three others had been taken out by one particularly bold sniper team, along with several soldiers from other units. Making the call to send Enderlen, Desmey, and Jury into no man's land to take them out had been hard, even though he'd known it was the best use of his resources. Ander hadn't been able to sleep or even eat much until they made it back, a day later than expected. Enderlen had taken a poke in the arm from an enemy bayonet and Jury'd been shot in the thigh and had to be sent off to hospital for more serious healing.

The day before they'd left had been the worst. Captain Darion, who was the regular officer for the stretch of trenches where they'd been serving, had been determined to get one more sortie out of the troops, and Ander hadn't been able to talk him out of it. As bad as the last month had been, the 424 had a relatively cushy home posting at Tashoren, and the mixed division usually operated in theatres of war where the sorcerers could be used more advantageously. The urge to 'get the most out of them' or have them 'pay their dues' from someone for whom massive loss of life had become the norm was difficult to reason against. He'd lost three more in the last sortie, and of the 28 who returned, six more were too injured to join their fellows in scraping off the last month's grime and trying to remember how to relax.

Ander was working on his letters. Technically it was the captain's job to inform the families of the dead of their losses, but they'd been his troops. Arguelles understood, and was happy to include the personal notes in his official missives. The job was harder when the deaths had been especially senseless, and as it was the middle of the afternoon, he couldn't even grab a drink to help channel his thoughts towards anything helpful: "Dear M. Baillard, I regret to inform you of the death of your wife, Pvt. Larisse Baillard. She was an excellent marksman and had many friends in the platoon. Several have accompanied her to the Center this day, my deepest regrets that I didn't have the rank to stop this pointless suicide charge from taking place, or the balls to shank the asshole responsible. She will be missed."

Ander stared at the first two lines, trying to think of a more reasonable follow up. He'd already written one letter, but he preferred not to just repeat the same stock phrases if he could avoid it. They hadn't been able to recover Baillard, or Trevus and Corwent for that matter. They weren't the first bodies he'd had to leave to rot, but it felt especially galling. Unlike snipers or random shells, this seemed like something he should have been able to exert more control over.

The half written letter stared back up at him indifferently. Ander ran his hands through his hair – cropped close, the shortest he'd ever had it in his life – feeling like he'd been exiled with the dead. It was a hot, muggy day, and he already felt disgusting from travel and the trenches – the sounds of splashing and occasional laughter from down the bank weren't doing anything to improve his mood. He didn't begrudge his troops the chance to take their mind off the past month and try and enjoy themselves, but he did wish that his own chances to do the same wouldn't come down to scoring a glass of slightly better quality grog in the officer's mess later, surrounded by people with whom he was at best on cordially friendly terms. The only real upside was that he might be able to get some decent cigarettes.

Thinking about having a smoke distracted him from thoughts of the dead, and he sat up to stretch his shoulders. As he did, he heard someone approaching up the path from the river, and looked over to see Corporal Jillain. The shirt she was wearing was certainly Harald's, as it hung down low over her thighs and she was able to wrap it almost double across her front. She grinned at him, dripping on the grass.

"Sir! You've gotta come down with us."

Slipping into the cool, clear waters of the Tashoren sounded even better than a cigarette. He was already hoping that seeing his people relax would help him feel a little better, and the notion of being able to join them in it – to be part of that – felt like it would do him a world more good than a drink. But that wasn't how things were supposed to go in the army. Arguelles had reprimanded him previously on his familiarity and fraternization with his soldiers.

"'Fraid that's not in the cards, corporal. These letters ain't gonna write themselves."

Jillain's smile turned grim, and she glanced at one of the soldiers on watch: the other Private Trevus. She'd been fighting beside her cousin when he fell, and Ander was sure it was only training that had let her cast the spell that had saved her own life through the shock. Jillain looked back to Ander before she continued. "Sir – the letters can wait an hour or two, can't they?"

"They're not going to bring anyone back," Trevus put in bluntly, then shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir. But you already did what you could."

"Everyone can tell you're miserable," Jillain added. "It's bad for morale. If you can't move on from this, sir..."

Ander wasn't quite sure how to answer that – he hadn't realized he was quite so transparent. Maybe that was why officers were urged to keep their distance. But then, if she was right, and all it took to help was to go down and join them.... He looked over at Trevus. Her lips were drawn in a tight line.

"You should go, sir."

He would have to have a talk with her later, but for now he was willing to listen to his people's advice.

"Alright then, just let me get this squared away."

Jillain's grin returned, and she bounced up on her toes while he packed away his writing supplies. "You can hang your stuff over here, sir," she said, as of course everyone had stripped down to take full advantage of the opportunity to get properly clean. Jillain slipped off her borrowed shirt, draping it over a branch of another nearby tree, and skipping back off towards the water. Arguelles, he was positive, would not approve. Ander could hear her announcing her victory to assorted shouts as he pulled off his boots and the rest of his uniform, trying not to think about having to put it all back on later. 

The cheers when he stepped out, naked, from behind the little copse of trees were a little disconcerting, but Ander waved them off and told them to quit it, looking for the best place to wade in. His glance took in several of the soldiers who were beckoning him to join them, but he quickly spotted just where he wanted to be. Enderlen was sitting up on a big rock towards the edge of the shallows. He grinned when their eyes met, his scar wrinkling up his face, but he didn't wave. Ander looked past him, tamping down the pang of disappointment. It was probably for the best; he was already crossing enough lines. But he needn't have been concerned. As soon as he settled on a point of entry – near Jillain and Harald, as she'd invited him and they were safely clinging to each other – Ralf came over with the bulk of the others. He didn't call Ander out the way some of the others did, vying for his attention. But he kept close, and it was more than Ander'd let himself hope for. 

The water felt glorious; the company was just as refreshing. It couldn't fix everything: the dead were still dead. But it could do a little to restore the living and for that, the dead could wait.


End file.
